gently whispered hope
by sciencekitty
Summary: our favorite bohemians have lost too many friends. Maureen and Collins find comfort in each other.


The attendees are invited to bow their heads as the ceremony draws to a close, and Collins watches out of the corner of his eye as Maureen slips quietly out of her pew and heads toward the nearest door. He counts to sixty seconds and then rises to follow her, catching Joanne's worried eye as he goes. He gestures and she nods, mouthing her thanks as the pastor finishes his final prayer.

The movement in the pews catches Mark's attention and Collins sees a momentary flash of panic in his friend's blue eyes. The meaning is as palpable as if he'd spoken aloud. _Where are you going? Why are you leaving? Don't go far. _

It's their third funeral in less than two years, their fourth overall counting April, and Collins thinks that maybe the rest of them are starting to crack from the grief. The worst was that naively, nobody had seen it coming. Finally clean and working a job that wasn't dancing at the Cat Scratch Club, Mimi had made a stunning improvement in the months after nearly dying in Roger's arms in the loft last winter. Everything was getting better, right up until it wasn't anymore. It had started with a mild case of the flu that everyone thought was just a cold until it was pneumonia and she was in the hospital fighting like hell just to breathe. Roger wouldn't be coaxed out of bed even for her funeral, and slowly began to unravel. Only a week ago, Mark had come home to find him splayed across the couch, his body cold and a needle sticking out of a vein in the crook of his arm.

Since then, they've all been a little reluctant to let each other get too far out of sight.

He finds Maureen leaning against a railing outside of the church, staring into space. Dried tear tracks stain her pale cheeks, and he notices that other than her ever present lipstick, she's only wearing the barest hint of makeup. Her dress is long-sleeved and dark navy blue, conservative as far as Maureen's tastes run. It's form-fitting, though a little looser than it was the last time she wore it. Dark curls tumble down her back as she grips the metal with one shaking hand and holds a cigarette to her lips with the other. One heel rests between the railing's metal slats and she pushes herself upward slightly as she takes a drag, and then releases a breath, grey smoke curling out of ruby red lips.

"Those things will kill you," Collins says ironically, and Maureen turns, not the least bit startled. She smiles thinly at his bad attempt at black humor. He ambles up beside her and gently removes the cigarette from between her fingers, admiring the orange glow of the tip against the dishwater blue of the cloudy sky. Taking a drag himself, he closes his eyes and enjoys the weight of the smoke in his lungs, the warmth of it between his lips as he exhales, careful to aim away from Maureen's face. He thinks about how it's been too damn long since he allowed himself this simple pleasure, and wonders why the hell he bothered to quit in the first place. A dying man, he figures, should be allowed at least one guilty indulgence.

"Hey," Maureen snaps, "get your own."

She reaches for the cigarette, and because there's no real malice in her voice, he chuckles before obediently handing it over.

They continue that way for a few minutes, silently passing the cigarette back and forth until Maureen tosses the butt to the ground and grinds it into the asphalt with the toe of her shoe. She turns to go back into the church, but he gently closes a hand around her wrist to keep her still. She looks up, irritation written plain as day in her eyes, but she softens when he pulls her into a hug. Her forehead rests heavily against his chest and he cherishes the moment, listening to her breathe. She clears her throat before speaking, but it does nothing to hide the emotion in her voice.

"I'm so fucking _sick_ of funerals," she says quietly, and Collins finds himself silently agreeing with her. There's been too much worry, too much stress and too much hurt, and lately he feels like all he wants to do is gather up his remaining friends and put them into a protective bubble somewhere safe, where the evils of the world can't get to them.

"Four of my best friends are dead," she continues, "and all I can think about is how someday it's going to be you."

Collins doesn't reply because, really, there's nothing to say. It _will _be him, likely much sooner than any of them would like, and what's left of their little family will continue to shrink. After every funeral, he feels the weight of his own mortality press down heavier on his shoulders. He often wonders about his own service: who will come, what they'll say, what his gravestone will look like. He's not sure whether he's being realistic or just unnecessarily morbid.

He feels Maureen release her hold on him and pull her arms back in toward herself before laying both her hands over his beating heart. She takes in a shaky breath and smiles up at him, her eyes watery.

"But I keep trying to remind myself that right now," she says, "_today_, you're still here, and that's what matters."

Silence reigns for a few moments before he can't help but to joke, "I promise to try to give you at least another year before I go, and I'll have the decency to die when it's warmer."

She laughs and pulls away, giving him a punch in the shoulder. "You're an asshole!"

Collins grins at her and they're both still laughing when there's a soft knock at the door and Joanne appears, looking apologetic.

"Hey guys," she says, "They're ready to go to the graveside now. Is everything ok?"

Walking toward the door, Maureen slips an arm around Joanne's waist and looks back at Collins, as if checking to see if he was coming.

"Yeah," he hears her say as he follows them back into the church, "it will be."


End file.
